Hey guys, this is my first stroy written in English being published. Since this is not my natice language, don't bee to hard on me considering grammar (and making sense in general :P) I hope you will enjoy it anyways, if you choose to read it.

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Chapter 01

He would fight them. He would take them on one by one, slashing their throats with the curved blade of his katana, which his father before him had used to kill the enemies of Zyuan. He would revel in their blood hitting his face as it had done countless times before. He would even fight them on his own if he had to.

Yes, he was young. But he was strong. He was skilled. Years of training had made him the loyal killer he was. And how many more of his age had fought for Zyuan, their country, their King, their treasure and died in glory? To die in glory, yes, he would do that. And if the time was now, then this would be the way it was supposed to happen and he would take his place and be buried next to the thousand young men who had given their life for this small, yet sacred piece of land.

Thousand? He was exaggerating. No other country of Kai had ever produced more skilled soldiers, warriors and killers as Zyuan had done. It was something in their blood, Sora-sama the white-bearded old, wise man and high-priest-counsellor of Zyuan had told him and his fellow fighters.

This time, he had warned them, too. Maybe even for the first time. But Hijiro was not afraid. "They use a certain kind of unexplored energy to boost their attacks. They are said to be incredibly fast because of this. And ruthless. They take no hostages. But kill those who do not surrender and succumb to their power," Sora-sama had said at the last meeting of Zyuan's majestic army. All fighters had been summoned from their missions in the adjoining lands, had made their way home as swift as possible, had been called for this battle.

So the tribe of Uruk was coming for their land. A smirk spread itself over Hijiro's face. He was picturing the unfolding bloodshed.

This is going to be fun, he thought and fastened his grip on the katana, looking over the wide, deep black forest spreading behind Zyuan's gates. All guards had been put up. All in all they were now 40 on the southern wall of the capitol city, awaiting the enemy in the full-moon light.

A bad omen.

The people of Zyuan believed that if the full moon shone on your shelter during war, the gods would lead the enemies to its centre, the fate of those attacked decided – defeat.

But Hijiro did not believe in what the old mystics said. He believed in his potential given to him via his bloodline and fostered through his merciless training, in the sweat, in the tears, in the blood pouring from his wounds.

He was twenty-five yet he had tiny scars all over his well-formed body. Witnesses of war. Witnesses of brutal disputes. Witnesses of complete obedience. Zyuan was everything to him. This is what his father had taught him. This is what he himself had believed in. This is what his brothers and sisters had believed in. This is what his mother had cherished, kissing him goodbye when his King was sending him to war.

They were all dead.

But Zyuan was save.

Happy faces of women and children, proud fathers teaching them how to use the katana, big festivities to cherish the gods, indescribable praise from other nations, the king, celebrating like a fellow man with his warriors in the streets.

A strong wind commenced to blow, taking up the dry sands of the Byuku desert, only a day's walk away from Zyuan. Hijiro ran his sun-tanned fingers through his dark-brown, shoulder-long hair, separating sand grains from strands.

"I wonder if the Uruk are strong enough to bear the challenge of Hell's mouth," said Danzou, the boy Hijiro had grown up with, had fought with, had got drunk with, had cried with when their families had died. Now, again, they were standing next to each other, waiting.

The Byuku desert, Hell's mouth as many nations called it, had no shadow. It bore no water, it bore no life. Only well prepared and well skilled one could survive it – if one got not lost, that is. And getting lost in Hell's mouth, ah, now that was easy.

Both young men, looking into each other's eyes, grinned, defying death that was soon to be crawling at them, smiling at them. Every time they defied death. But they were not scared. At least, that is what they believed.

Hours passed.

The sun was rising and you could hear the bells of the temple chime. Slowly, one chime after the other. The men had not talked much, had been focused on any possible sound, any possible alarm that the enemy was near. But there was no enemy. All was calm.

"Too calm," Yamato, the squad leader, had murmured under his nose. But now the change of guards was coming and Yamato had to order his group to retreat and get some sleep – with their swords as their pillow. The Uruk could come at any time.

Mercilessly the noon sun was shining down on the guards, was shining down on the sleeping warriors, on Danzou and Hijiro, sitting with their backs leaned against the giant city wall. No sleep for them.

No words exchanged.

Waiting.

Maybe the cowards have retreated, Hijiro thought. And seriously, who would not be scared facing Zyuan in war?

Again, a grin spreading over the young man's face.

Cowards, it echoed through his mind.

But then, he did not know the Uruk…

Eyes closing.

The nauseating heat of the sun having its effect.

His muscles relaxing.

His mind drifting off to darkness.

Breath steadying.

Calm.

All calm.

All dark.

All…

The eye-piercing screams and roars of his fellow soldiers forcible pulled him back into reality.

"What in the world…," he managed to say upon jumping up.

His senses had failed him. Usually, he could detect the enemy many miles away. And now, now they were right here. How had they managed to pass the wall?! It raced through his head. And then he saw it. The earth crumbling, and the enemy digging out with immense strength, with bare hands pushing aside the dry and hard sand, in merely a few seconds, darting off into the air, flails, axes, swords, raised above their heads, crashing down on the Zyuan soldiers.

The guards upon the walls had turned, were about to jump down to aide their fellow mates but then, from the air the Uruk came, riding birds of a grown-up tiger's size, with crusty and sharp claws, sharps beaks screeching. Never in the world had he heard such a high-pitched sound, his hands pressed automatically to his ears, the impact of the sound forcing him to his knees.

To his knees!

Overwhelming shame with anger mixed, adrenaline pumping. Gritting his teeth he pulled out his katana. One look to his right – Danzou, eyes fixed upon the two dark figures in front of them. Then his friend's eyes, for a second, shifted, and, giving the approving sign to Hijiro, both men stormed forward, jumping high and with raised blades cutting off both arms of the Uruk soldier who was closest to them. He had no chance to move, so swift was their movement, so strong their arms.

Steadying, lifting swords for their second attack, back to back, the dark sand and dust whirling around them, screams and grunts seeming to come from everywhere.

How in the hell had they not seen the enormous bird being led right down at them?! How in the world did it go so fast?!

The hard beak cut deep into their upper arms, before the bird crashed fully into them, with its claws dragging them along the hard earth, crashing them into the wall of the guardhouse right next to the wall, before taking off into the air again.

Before any coherent sentence could form in his mind, an Uruk grabbed Hijiro's dirty shirt and easily, far too easily, lifted him up, hauled him off the wall and threw him into a group of three of four, Hijiro couldn't see, other soldiers. Two of them grabbed him by his bleeding arms and stretched him, then fists hit his stomach with full force, blood dripping from his mouth down his chin.

Then one arm was released and the Uruk holding his right, tightening his grip, hailed him high into air, sending him flying over the corpses of his fellow warriors, finally crashing into a deserted stall of hand made baskets, the wooden construction elapsing onto him.

Dark.

Calm.

All calm.

All dark.

Then those ear-piercing screams again.

Eyes shot open.

Ignoring the pain, ignoring the blood, ignoring the shame he pushed the wood and the cloths away, pushed his way back into the battlefield. And froze.

The main gate had been broken open, Uruks on giant, coal-black stallions were riding into the city, were trampling over the dead bodies, blood splashing their majestic armory.

There, right opposite Hijiro, by the wall, lay Danzou. At least, what was left of him..

His head, with a pain-written grimace, eyes turned white seemed to stare at Hijiro.

Yes, he had seen death before. Many times. Yet never it had touched the Zyuan so fast, never it had touched his closest friends when he was there.

Never!

He looked around.

The Uruk fighting him just a minute ago had gone, marched further into the city. He could hear the screams of the children being slaughtered. He could hear the cries of the women being raped. He could hear the gurgling shrieks of the soldiers, his soldiers, being pierced and hit by the Uruk's weapons.

Numb he was, yet he started to run, the oh so familiar shaped of Zyuans houses spinning around him, as he raced through narrow corridors, stumbling over the heaps of bloody, human, torn flesh.

It was all over too fast.

One moment off guard, a strong arm caught him, stopped him, fist beating into his face, hauling him off his feet, sending him into yet another wall.

His face hit the ground, dust making his eyes itchy and wet, sand making him cough, blood in his throat making it hard to breathe, the pain in his chest, stomach, arms and legs making it hard to move.

Slowly and with great concentration he managed to open his eyes.

Black hooves coming at him.

He could hear nothing but the giant hooves banging on the ground. Banging in his head. Making his temples almost shatter.

Then the stallion was stopped and the rider, clad fully in black, descended.

Slowly Hijiro's eyes wandered upwards.

There he came.

Long strands of golden-blond hair hanging lose over the broad, steel-clad shoulders. Pale, flawless skin, contrasting with two deep-black eyes. Perfect teeth, shining fully in the noon sun, as he grinned down at Hijiro. His right hand fastened on the giant sword, pulling it out the sheath with a swift sound, the razor sharp and hot tip touching Hijiro's chin, his blood dripping down onto the blade.

Their eyes were fixed intently upon each other.

This is death… Hijiro thought. Death. But no glory.

The foreign rider still grinned and then, with a dark, husky, and evil voice he said:

"Lover? Or Slave. You choose…"